Burns Day
by merduff
Summary: Wilson and House commemorate Burns Day in different ways - in 2010 Wilson proposes a dinner party that promises to be disastrous.
1. Burns

**Author's Notes:** My toast to the Immortal Memory. Quotes from "To a Mouse," "The Selkirk Grace," "Green grow the rashes, O!" and "A Red, Red Rose." My own Wilson ancestors did immigrate to Derry, New Hampshire in roughly 1720 along with the Archibalds, Taylors, and Fishers, with whom they intermarried to a disturbing extent._  
_

* * *

_"Wee sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,  
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!"_

The three diagnostics fellows looked up in surprise at the strange words spoken by the Head of Oncology. James Wilson strode into the boardroom, an expansive smile on his face and a tartan tie around his neck. He dropped a paper bag on the conference table in the diagnostics boardroom. "Happy Burns Day," he proclaimed.

"If that's haggis, I'll kill you," Greg House warned, suspiciously eyeing the bag as he limped into the room. "Cuddy would even help me bury the body."

"Haggis?"

Wilson turned a shocked gaze on the questioner. "Allison. You're a Cameron and you don't know what haggis is? Shameful."

Allison Cameron rolled her eyes. "You're Jewish."

"The Wilsons have Scots connections. We were border reivers." His enthusiasm flagged a bit at the lack of encouragement. "My ancestors were sent to Ulster as part of the Plantation and immigrated to New Hampshire in the early 1700s." His voice faded away along with the rest of their interest. "I brought scones," he said hopefully.

House snatched the bag up before the others had a chance to investigate. "From the bakery on Witherspoon?" He opened the bag and breathed deeply. "You're a prince among men, Wilson." He handed a freshly baked fruit scone to everybody, rapping Chase on the shin with his cane when he started to take a bite. "Grace first." He nodded at Wilson, who had regained his earlier cheer and struck a dramatic pose.

_"Some hae meat and canna eat  
And same wad eat that want it  
But we hae meat, and we can eat,  
And sae the Lord be thank it."_

"We na hae meat here," Foreman observed.

"So literal," House scolded. "You have to think in poetic terms." He turned to Wilson and raised a warning eyebrow. "Not you, though. Your marriage is in enough trouble without you floating about quoting Burns to the nurses."

A dreamy smile tugged at Wilson's lips.

_"The sweetest hours that e'er I spend  
Are spent among the lasses, O."_

"Stop it," House ordered. "Not in front of the children."

It was like throwing gasoline on fire. Wilson sat down at the table across from Cameron and leaned forward, looking soulfully into her eyes.

_"O, my luve is like a red, red rose,  
That's newly sprung in June.  
O, my luve is like a melodie,  
That's sweetly play'd in tune."_

House growled and Cameron blushed. Chase looked as though he wanted to take notes.

_"As fair art thou, my bonie lass,  
So deep in luve am I,  
And I will luve thee still, my dear,  
Till a' the seas gang dry."_

Wilson stood up abruptly and walked over to the window looking out onto the balcony, still quoting softly.

_"Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,  
And the rocks melt wi the sun!  
And I will luve thee still, my dear,  
While the sands o life shall run."_

House heard the regret in his voice and knew another divorce was looming on the horizon. He picked up the final verse, joining Wilson at the window.

_"And fare thee weel, my only luve!  
And fare thee weel, a while!  
And I will come again, my luve,  
Tho it were ten thousand mile!"_

He bumped shoulders with Wilson, who shrugged and jammed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. They stood silently, looking out at the grey January sky, words written two centuries before hanging heavily in the air. "I've got a bottle of Talisker in my office," Wilson said finally. "Come by later for a drink." He managed a bright smile for House's team and left, his step not quite as jaunty as when he'd arrived.

House stared out the window a moment longer, caught in the immortal memory.


	2. Burns Redux

**Author's Notes: **I'm a sucker for traditions, which is why I love Burns Suppers so much (well, that and the whiskey and dancing), so I thought I'd start my own little tradition of Burns fic. The best lines, of course, belong to the Immortal Memory.

* * *

On his first day out of rehab, House slipped into work early (it was a short trip down the elevator) and locked himself in his office until his fellows got the hint and stopped trying to talk to him. He didn't know which one snitched - he suspected Chase - but minutes after the oncology department weekly meeting ended, Wilson was standing in front of his office door, hands planted not very patiently on his hips.

House sighed and got up to unlock the door. Wilson was wearing his ridiculous tartan tie and House realised what day it was. "Where are the scones?" he demanded.

"Sorry, no scones," Wilson replied, "but there's shortbread in the oncology lounge."

"You didn't bring us any shortbread," House sulked. "The children are going to think they're unloved."

"They are," Wilson replied bluntly.

House blinked. That had sounded almost angry. He had a fair idea of how Cameron and Foreman had treated Wilson after he had made the deal with Tritter - the thin glass walls in the hospital were designed for gossip and House had sources second to none - but Wilson was one of the most ridiculously forgiving men he knew. Maybe Wilson had done some rehabilitation of his own. "Even Chase?"

Wilson relaxed slightly, one corner of his mouth twitching up. "I got Chase some vegemite for Australia Day tomorrow. Surely that's enough."

The tiny voice that had haunted House those pain-filled days before and after Christmas finally shut up. Wilson might have gone to Tritter partly because of what House had done to Chase, but he hadn't chosen Chase over House. "Where's my shortbread, then?"

"I didn't know you were getting out today," Wilson replied, sounding simultaneously apologetic, hurt and disapproving. It was a tone Wilson specialized in and House basked in the familiarity.

"I took the accelerated program," House explained. "Skipped a couple of those weird steps in the middle and graduated early." He smirked. "I was just following your example. Didn't you tell me you skipped a grade in school?"

"That was grade 2," Wilson protested. "Which I skipped because I'd already mastered most of the curriculum." He smirked back at House. "I'm somewhat relieved that you left before the meditation, prayer and proselytizing, but I'm shocked that you didn't humbly ask God to remove your shortcomings."

"My higher power and I agreed that I had no shortcomings, so it was all right to skip that one."

"I'm glad the spirit of André the Giant was so agreeable," Wilson observed sardonically. He wasn't smiling, but it was a close thing. "I hope he at least spoke to you in rhymes."

For the first time since he'd checked himself into rehab as a last resort, House felt like things were back to normal. For both of them. "Speaking of rhymes, why aren't you quoting Burns at me like an annoying literary geek?"

He half-expected a bawdy couplet, memorized just for the occasion, but Wilson lowered his head and spoke softly. "_The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley._" When he looked up again, his dark, expressive eyes asked for understanding and forgiveness.

House searched his memory for the next line. "_An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain/ For promis'd joy!_" His brogue was better than Wilson's, but it didn't make the words any less depressing. "It's not always grief and pain," he admitted. "Even if there's not much joy." House had done enough apologizing and forgiving to last him a lifetime, but he found the patience for one more effort. "I know you meant well. I know you always mean well."

"I'm going to try to do well," Wilson promised. He pulled something wrapped in a napkin from his lab coat pocket and handed it to House. "I was going to give it to you during visiting hours."

House took the napkin and uncovered a wedge of Scottish shortbread. The edges were just jagged enough that House knew Wilson had baked it himself. He took a bite and sighed. "Now that is joy." He jerked his head towards Wilson's favourite chair. "Have a seat. I need to tell you about my spiritual awakening."

Wilson groaned, but dropped into the chair, smiling ruefully.

House left a trail of crumbs as he limped back to his desk, all the better for Wilson to find him.

_And there's a hand, my trusty fiere!  
And gie's a hand o' thine!  
And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,  
For auld lang syne._


	3. Burns Supper

**Author's Note:** A day late, but I think Rabbie would have appreciated the evening of fine wine and better friends that caused the delay.

* * *

On Friday, House wandered into the lobby of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital just before noon. He was in no hurry. He didn't have a patient, he wasn't scheduled for a session in purgatory, and tenure meant never having to say he was sorry. 

Even better, Cuddy was behind closed doors and didn't look up when he skulked past her office en route to the elevators. All in all, a good morning.

He didn't think anything of the flash of plaid he saw in the lobby, but when he walked into the Diagnostics conference room and saw Kutner wearing a tartan vest, he began to think something was up. Then he remembered the date. January 25. Robert Burns' birthday. Burns Day.

He looked hopefully at the conference room table, but there were no scones, or shortbread, or even oatcakes in sight. "Has Hamish MacWilson been by?" he asked the three little pigs and the big, bad wolf. The greedy bastards better not have gobbled up his share of the treats.

"I don't think he's in today," Taub replied. "He said something yesterday about taking the day off."

House vaguely remembered words to that effect, but he only paid attention to Wilson when it was relevant to him, and even then it was more interesting to watch Wilson strike poses like he was stuck in a Madonna video than to listen to him.

"You," he said, pointing at his tartan-clad fellow. "Kutner of the Glen. Go down to the bakery on Witherspoon and get me scones. You can tell Wilson to pay you on Monday." He couldn't believe that Wilson had left him pastry-less on Burns Day. "But if I hear bagpipes, you're fired." He glared at the others. "Stay out of my way until I have sustenance."

They made a point of staying out of his way the rest of the day. Kutner even left the bag of scones at his office door, before knocking and scurrying away, an absurd exercise as House had watched him approach all the way down the hall.

House enjoyed the scones, but it wasn't the same without Wilson hanging about quoting odd bits of poetry. And it was no fun mocking Kutner over his ridiculous choice of attire. He was as oblivious to what he wore as Chase. But Wilson still maintained quaint notions about professional dress that would have amused Burns, himself.

Since Wilson had abandoned him, House was forced to play his role. He pushed open the door to the conference room.

"_O wad some power the giftie gie us  
To see oursel's as ithers see us!  
It wad frae monie a blunder free us.  
And foolish notion;  
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us,  
And ev'n devotion!_?

He doubted his minions would ever be freed of blunders or foolish notions, but it was worth the wasted breath to see Hadley jump in her chair and knock over a glass of water. "Unlucky, Thirteen," he said. "Make sure you clean that up before you go."

Satisfied that he'd spread enough terror and mayhem for the day, he grabbed his jacket and backpack and headed for the exit. His luck held and he escaped the hospital without attracting Cuddy's attention. To celebrate, and out of a feeling of festivity that he would never admit to anyone else, he forewent his usual Friday evening purchase at the liquor store and splashed out on a bottle of 15-year-old Macallan instead.

It was nearing six by the time he pulled up to his apartment, and the sun was already below the horizon. He didn't think anything of the light shining through the cracks in the curtains, but he was surprised to find his apartment door unlocked.

He opened it cautiously and stuck his head in. The first thing he noticed was that half the lights were on in the apartment. The second was the mouth-watering aromas wafting from the kitchen. Apparently, he was now attracting a better class of burglars.

"Take what you want!" he shouted. "Just leave me my dignity."

Wilson emerged from the kitchen, a plate of scones in one hand. "You lost that long ago." He was sans tartan tie, much to House's disappointment, but he'd more than made up for it by donning an apron that read, "If it's broon it's cooked an' if it's black it's buggert."

House ignored his apparel for a moment, in favour of snatching a scone before Wilson changed his mind. "Where were these this morning when I needed them?" he demanded.

"I assume you're using the term 'morning' loosely," Wilson observed dryly. "Considering that it was well past eleven before I could load everything in."

"What did you do, lurk outside until you saw me leave?"

Wilson shrugged. "It wouldn't have been a surprise if you'd seen me."

The logic was unassailable, even if the action wasn't. "You took the day off to bake scones?" It seemed a little extreme, even for someone as fussy as Wilson when it came to cooking.

"You can't rush a perfect puff pastry," he replied. "And it's a good thing I got here when I did. Two of the elements on your stove aren't working. I've been working at half-capacity all day."

It was too easy, House mused. And Wilson had earned a reward, so he refrained from pointing out that he'd been working at half-capacity for as long as he'd known him. "What's for dinner?" he asked instead.

Wilson stared at him. "You do know what day this is?" he asked in a tone that suggested House was slightly mentally deficient.

House considered retracting his reward. "The day when morons without even a drop of Scottish blood wear ugly patterns? Or stupid aprons?"

Wilson didn't even acknowledge the insult with a frown. "Then you should know what's for dinner."

House's mouth dropped open, a few stray crumbs spilling to the floor. "Tell me you're not making haggis in my kitchen."

"I'm not making haggis in your kitchen," Wilson replied agreeably. "I _made_ it in your kitchen several hours ago." He rolled his eyes, but then apparently decided an eye roll wasn't enough and looked heavenward. "You'll eat it and complain that it tastes like dog food, and then you'll have seconds."

"I wouldn't subject a dog to haggis," House muttered. "Not even that furball with teeth of yours that nearly destroyed my apartment."

"Shut up, sit down, and let me finish dinner." Wilson stalked back into the kitchen, but there was a spring in his step that House hadn't seen recently.

House smiled to himself and made his way to the couch. He looked for a place to put the plate on the coffee table, but it was even more cluttered than usual, so he traded the plate for a small stack of DVDs and a hardcover book. He glanced at the movies - _Braveheart_,_Trainspotting_, and _Highlander_ - then tossed them on the couch and examined the book. It was a well-worn collection of poetry by Robert Burns. House opened to a page marked with the receipt from the bookstore and grinned. Wilson could always be counted on to go overboard on details.

"_Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,/Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!_" he declaimed.

"_Aboon them a' ye tak your place,  
Painch, tripe, or thairm:  
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace  
As lang's my arm._"

Wilson emerged again, a disapproving look on his face. "You're not supposed to say that until the haggis is brought out."

"Don't be such a slave to expectation," House retorted. "Do you think Burns would have approved of that?"

"I think Burns would have approved of a beer right about now," Wilson replied, refusing to rise to the bait. "You want one?"

"Get a couple of glasses, instead," House said. There would be another time to travel that path. "I've a nobler blend of John Barleycorn in mind." He pulled the Macallan out of his backpack. It was worth every penny to see Wilson's mouth drop open in appreciation. He was in and out of the kitchen with two tumblers before House even had time to uncork the bottle.

"Slainte," House said, knocking his glass against Wilson's.

"Blessings on your frosty pow," Wilson replied, hiding his smirk with a deep sip from the glass. "Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes or so," he said.

It wouldn't be soon enough. House's stomach was already rumbling in anticipation. "Shouldn't you be out romancing a wench on a Friday night?" he said to cover his eagerness.

Another eye roll indicated that Wilson wasn't fooled. "Saturday'll do just as well. I'm where I want to be tonight."

He was where House wanted him to be as well._  
_

* * *

_Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,  
And dish them out their bill o' fare,  
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware  
That jaups in luggies:  
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,  
Gie her a Haggis!_


	4. The Star o' Rabbie Burns

On Monday, Kutner bounces into the office with an expression on his face that Taub has come to both dread and enjoy, like the slasher scenes in a horror movie or the audition rounds of _American Idol_. Whatever loss in income he suffered in his desperate bid to salvage his marriage, he's more than gained in free entertainment over the past year.

"You'll never guess what I saw on the weekend!" Kutner exclaims, dumping his backpack in the corner and heading straight to the coffee machine.

It's a familiar refrain, echoed almost every Monday morning. The answer could be anything from a Princeton Tigers hockey game to the latest _Battlestar Galactica_ webisode — a phrase that holds virtually no meaning for Taub. Kutner finds everything fascinating and expects the rest of the world to share his enthusiasm.

"The face of God?" Hadley asks. She's been happier, more stable, recently, which Taub suspects has something to do with the way she and Foreman look at each other when they think no one else is watching. Taub is all for inter-office romances, especially ones that don't involve him and therefore deflect House's attention away from _his_ personal life.

"Better," Kutner says, stirring two spoonfuls of sugar and a heavy dollop of cream into his coffee. "On Saturday, I went out for drinks with this woman I'm seeing. She's a golfer, amazing body torque. Anyway, we went to her club, and the bar was filled with guys in tartan. For a minute, I thought it was some new dress code that she hadn't told me about, but it turns out there was a Burns Supper upstairs and they were getting a head start on the drinking before the piper arrived. I wanted to see if there were any tickets left, but it was sold out. I've always wanted to try haggis," he muses.

It's quite possibly the first time Taub has ever heard those words uttered. "It's internal organs and oatmeal boiled in a sheep's stomach. It's something to be endured, not anticipated."

"It can't be that bad," Kutner replied. "Those people were paying $60 a head for it." Taub can almost see him trying to work out a way to turn a profit on haggis next year. Kutner sees potential in everything. It's one of the things Taub likes best about him.

"That's for the whiskey needed to drown out the taste." In fact, Taub doesn't mind haggis. Like many dishes, it's much more palatable when he doesn't think too hard about its origins.

"Do we have to start the week by talking about offal?" Foreman asks.

"What's so awful about offal?" Kutner replies, chuckling at his own joke. "And that's not what I was talking about. You'll never guess who I saw going into the dinner when I was leaving."

Taub already knows where the story is going, but he doesn't begrudge Kutner his moment of revelation. Foreman, on the other hand, brings the train to an abrupt halt. "House," he says, and it's hard not to smile at the way Kutner's face falls in disappointment. Bursting Kutner's bubble is far more entertaining than watching it inflate.

"How did you know?" Kutner asks, struggling to retain his enthusiasm.

"I overheard Wilson saying something about Sean Connery and embracing his heritage, and then he gave House a ticket and told him to be ready by six thirty on Saturday." Foreman smiles. "There were some vague threats involved, as well."

"And House went?" Hadley sounds surprised, as if she can't imagine House in a setting outside the hospital, especially a social setting.

"You think he's going to turn down a free dinner?" Foreman replies. "Besides, he always does what Wilson wants eventually, if not exactly the way Wilson intended."

That's true enough, if not the whole truth. House, they now know, will do just about anything for Wilson, including frying his brain and, rumour has it, apologizing.

Kutner tries to rally. "Okay. But you'll never guess what he was wearing."

It doesn't take three intelligent people, trained to make obscure connections in even more obscure diseases, to figure that out. Taub speaks up first. It's his turn for the reveal. "Argyll jacket and vest, bow tie, kilt, sporran, garters and sock knife," he says. "Royal Stewart. Wilson was in Gunn." It's the little details that make the victory complete.

"How do you know what tartans they were wearing?" Kutner asks suspiciously.

"I asked." Taub knows the smile on his face is smug, but he thinks he's earned it. "Wilson is a sept of Clan Gunn. And Wilson rented Royal Stewart for House because, quote, House is a royal pain in the ass, unquote." Top that, he thinks, though he knows that once Kutner recovers from his disappointment, he'll happily scrounge for any morsel of information Taub is willing to share.

"You were at the dinner?" he asks. "But you're Jewish."

"So is Wilson," Taub points out. "My wife's best friend is on the board of the club. She had two extra tickets for her table, so Rachel said we'd go. I don't exactly have right of refusal these days." Which, as it turns out, is a good thing. He never would have agreed to go otherwise, and Kutner would have won this round.

"So you had dinner with House?" Hadley asks, and this time her surprise is justified.

"Different tables." _Thank G-d_. "But we had a scotch and cigar together while Wilson danced with my wife. House might solve the tough cases, but Wilson's the real lifesaver." It's not that Taub dislikes dancing. But there's a difference between swaying to a slow song, two bodies fitting together in all the right ways, and trying to remember which direction to weave through the other half-drunken idiots that have only just learned the steps. But Rachel loves dancing, and he loves Rachel, so he's willing to make a fool of himself for her. But he'll never object to someone else looking the fool, as long he gets that last slow dance.

"Wilson loves to dance. It's the only time in a relationship he gets to lead." For a man with a cane, House can be surprisingly stealthy. None of them heard or saw him enter the conference room, an impressive feat given the glass walls.

"Amber let him lead?"

One day an ambitious neurologist is going to do a detailed scan of Kutner's brain and identify the switch that's been disconnected between his mouth and internal censor. Taub worries that one day he'll make some meaningless comment that will get him beaten up or worse, but in the meantime he's happy to let Kutner express those better-left-unexpressed thoughts for all of them. This time, though, it's not the words that are ill-advised, but the expression of utter disbelief that they all feel but are smart enough to disguise.

"We took turns." Somehow, Wilson has managed to slip into the room behind House. They need to get a bell for the door. "Once she was certain I wouldn't trample her toes." He smiles, but Taub had seen the sadness in Wilson's eyes when he watched the couples slow dancing at the end of the night.

"You'd better hope that the lovely Mrs. Taub isn't looking to even the score, because Wilson has a secondary specialty in healing broken hearts," House interjects. "A sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on, a spin around the dance floor, and then it's wham, bam, thank you Dr. Wilson for the horizontal tango."

This time, Taub doesn't mind being House's object of deflection. Amber's ghost is already too heavy a presence in the room.

"Actually," Wilson says, winking at Taub, "we talked about signing up for salsa lessons on Tuesday nights."

By rights, Taub should be the one concerned by that, but it's House who looks disturbed. House upbraids Wilson constantly about moving on from Amber, but that doesn't mean he actually wants it to happen. Especially not out of sight and surrounded by single women looking for more than salsa to spice up their lives. Taub has taken dance lessons with his wife before. Wilson would be more sought-after than a regiment of officers in Meryton.

"Sounds like a great idea," Taub replies, pleased by the furrow that appears in House's brow. "There's a photography course that I've been meaning to take on Tuesdays. We could meet for dinner beforehand, make it a weekly get-together." He has no more intention of taking photography classes than Wilson has of learning salsa, but baiting House is even more entertaining than listening to Kutner, especially when he has back-up.

"You could start a club," House snipes. "The Princeton chapter of Adulterous Jews International. Your wife might not be able to join yet, but give her time. Revenge is a dish best served cold, after all." He looks almost abashed when Wilson frowns at him, but Taub doesn't waste his energy getting upset by jabs he deserves.

"I assume you managed to lure him out of his lair with the promise of a free dinner and drinks," he tells Wilson instead. "But how did you get him dressed appropriately?"

Wilson's look of self-satisfaction is eerily familiar. "It was part of the bet. Length — word count and time — of the inaugural address."

Of course. House would run book on the date of his own death. It's probably the only thing keeping him alive. "What would have happened if you'd lost?"

Wilson just shrugs. "I would have had an extra ticket for the dinner. But I'm sure Cuddy would have liked a few hours break from the baby. Win-win either way. For me, at least." His expression of innocence doesn't fool anyone, and it certainly wouldn't have fooled House.

"You bought the tickets, rented the formal wear, and kept House in scotch most of the night," Taub muses, though the latter was probably a defensive measure. "You must have dropped $500 on the night. I'd call that a loss."

"Only when measured in monetary terms," Wilson replies. "I'd call it money well spent."

"You can't put a price on an evening out with a good friend," Kutner says, apparently sincerely.

They all stare at him in disbelief. "That's right," Wilson says kindly, but as he turns to leave Taub sees him roll his eyes at House.

"What was your guess?" he asks once Wilson is out of sight.

"Five hundred words and 33 minutes," House replies. "I was expecting heckling. Boy, was I disappointed."

Taub doubts that. The bet was clearly just a formality, another step in that odd dance House and Wilson have been mastering for years. Maybe Kutner isn't entirely wrong.

It's not until a few minutes later, when the video arrives in their inboxes, that Taub appreciates the full value of that five hundred dollars, not to mention the steady stream of scotch. House in formal Highland regalia was disturbingly attractive, though Taub would run naked through the patient wards before he admits that to anyone. House in formal Highland regalia drunkenly singing "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose" is the highlight of his year so far.

House's angry bellow carries clearly from Wilson's office to the conference room, but it's cut off sharply by the sound of Wilson's genuine, unrestrained laughter. When House returns to the conference room, his step is lighter than it has been for weeks.

House lives to win, but Taub knows that victory comes in many different forms.


	5. The Great Chieftain

"Is that a dagger I see before me?" House asked, staring at the object in Wilson's hand.

"It's a dirk," Wilson replied, holding the knife up for House to admire.

It was definitely worth admiring: Damascus steel; an elaborately carved rosewood handle mounted in sterling silver; amethyst set in the pommel. "Where did you get that?" The more obvious question was, _Why_, but House never asked the obvious. Besides, in the time that it took to frame the question, he had catalogued the other items from Wilson's shopping trip and realized what day was approaching.

"I saw it in the window of an antique store next to the furniture store where I was trying to find a replacement for that eyesore." He gestured towards the double recliner with the knife, which would have been unnerving if House wasn't already alarmed by what was wrapped in butcher's paper on the kitchen counter.

He hoped that it was at least in an artifical casing, not an actual sheep's stomach, though he was surprised Wilson hadn't gone out and butchered the animal himself. The dirk must have satisfied his thirst for authenticity. Even better, it had also distracted him from furniture shopping. And now that Wilson was back to work full-time, he would be too busy catching up with his patients to think about interior decoration.

Satisfied that his comfort was assured for at least another week, House rummaged through the unpacked groceries. The bag of potatoes was to be expected -- the bin under the sink was nearly empty -- but he was disturbed by the number of turnips Wilson had bought. It looked as though he had enough root vegetables to feed a small clan.

"How many people have you invited to this pseudo-Scottish shindig?" he asked suspciously. If they were having company, Wilson would start nagging at him to unpack the rest of his boxes, and while he had no intention of complying, Wilson had many ways of making his life miserable, not the least of which was throwing a dinner party involving offal.

Wilson gave him his most innocent look. "Just a few friends," he said, setting off an air raid siren in House's head.

"Not the self-important jerk and his mid-life crisis?" he asked, though having easy access to a sharp blade in Tucker's presence was an unexpected boon.

"He's still recuperating in Katonah," Wilson replied, but from his tone of voice, House guessed there wouldn't be any more bizarre annual excursions. "I've invited Cuddy and Lucas. He's making Cock-a-Leekie soup."

"Isn't that appropriate," House muttered. "Why would you do that?"

"You like Cuddy, and you like Lucas," Wilson replied reasonably, even though there was absolutely nothing reasonable about the situation.

"I like chocolate cake and anchovies, but the thought of them together makes me want to throw up in my mouth." Just like haggis and bagpipes. Fearing the worst, he spied a small bag and pulled out a handful of CDs. _The Essential Bagpipe Collection_. Kenneth McKellar. _Kill me now_, he thought. "You know, if you wanted me to move out, you just had to ask."

"The bagpipes are only for piping in the haggis," Wilson protested. "And I needed a recording of 'The Star o' Rabbie Burns' to sing along with. It'll be fun."

House was beginning to think that Wilson had been deprived of oxygen during the transplant operation. Or maybe the surgeon had screwed up and cut out a lobe of his brain, instead of his liver. "Okay, first of all, no one under the age of eighty thinks Kenneth McKellar is fun. And second, if you wanted bagpipe music, you just had to ask." He pulled out his iPod and scrolled down to the Cs. He clicked onto a seemingly traditional rendition of "Scotland the Brave" that segued into a raucous punk cover. "Now that's fun."

Wilson nodded approvingly. "You can be in charge of the music, then." He sheathed the dirk in a leather scabbard and started putting away the groceries. "Make sure you're home by six tomorrow," he warned. "And don't make Chase stay late."

"You invited Chase?" He wondered what he'd done to piss Wilson off this time. It was hard to keep track, given Wilson's penchant for serving his revenge ice-cold. "Why would you do that?"

"He's lonely. You drove his wife away."

Of course. It was only a matter of time before Wilson initiated Chase into his club for pathetic divorcés. "I didn't drive Cameron away. She got on a plane all by herself and flew back to the Midwest with all her issues safely checked through." He was going to have to find a case first thing in the morning, preferably one that required round-the-clock monitoring. "Haven't we talked about inviting my minions into our home?"

"Nope," Wilson said, grabbing a measuring cup from the drawer. He poured a cup of brown sugar into a mixing bowl and cut in a package of butter. "I don't think it's ever come up."

"Because only a moron would think it's a good idea." Maybe he could bribe a med student into taking an experimental drug with bizarre, but relatively safe, side effects. Or better yet convince Cuddy to send him on a lecture out of state.

"I wonder if Nora will like him," Wilson mused.

"Nora, too? What are you trying to do, have the most uncomfortable dinner party ever? Why didn't you invite Stacy and Mark while you were at it?"

"They weren't available." Only years of experience enabled House to distinguish the twinkle in Wilson's eye. "Relax," he said, cracking a self-satisfied smile. "You don't have to deal with haggis or bagpipes, employees or former lovers. I'm having a Burns supper in the oncology lounge for my staff tomorrow night. Sort of a thank you for picking up the slack while I was on leave."

"You're feeding them haggis as a thank you?" House exclaimed. "I thought I was a crappy boss."

"Everybody else thinks you're a crappy boss," Wilson said, mixing flour into the creamed butter and sugar. "You bought yourself a 'World's Greatest Boss' mug and sent yourself flowers on Boss's Day. The haggis is just for tradition. I'm going to poach a salmon with carrots and leeks, maybe some celery root."

"So you're making all this for somebody else?" House watched Wilson knead the dough and then roll it out. "Even the shortbread?" Wilson was only supposed to cook for him.

"You're welcome to come," Wilson said, reading his mind, or at least his pout. "I'd like to thank you, too, for being there for me. It meant a lot." No one did sincere better than Wilson, even when he didn't mean a word he said. When he did mean it, not even House could withstand the assault.

The last thing he wanted, however, was to spend the evening with a bunch of oncologists. One was more than enough. In retrospect, Wilson's first guest list sounded much more appealing, or at least far more entertaining. "I'll pass," he said. "But I expect you to save me a plate. And don't forget the haggis."

It was tradition, after all.


End file.
